Me and Mr. Jones

“I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead….

It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more [blogs] to be written, thank God.

This then? This is not a [blog]. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a [blog], in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse….

To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.”

With puberty came insecurity and confusion. Questions about body hair and how two men might have sex with each other (because I was sure that I would like to do just that) sent me to the library’s sex and development reference books looking for answers and validation.

I had some favorites: What’s happening to my body? (a book for boys); Boys and Sex; Sexual behavior in the human male; and some lovely development book who’s title I don’t remember because I never read it I just looked at the pictures which included (to my “growing” pleasure) a photo of the fully-developed adult male letting it all hang out. I would hide in the corner reading these books in the basement of the library because I was too embarrassed to check them out. I even occasionally snuck one or two out of the library illeagally in my trousers and read them in my room with the door locked. The secrecy came from the fact that I knew I was probably not supposed to be reading this books for the reasons I read them.

I was searching for titillation, yes, but I was also in need of some literary vindication that all of my impulses had been had by others and that they were possible to eventually indulge. You see, having caught a glimpse of male sexuality (in the form of the afore mentioned peeing-peepshow) had created a curious monster, a hungry explorer, a too-self-aware-for-his-own-good little boy who needed answers and some sort of release. I loved looking at boys, thinking about boys, and wanted to kiss and touch them. But I was in the 5th grade, had a girlfriend, and lived in the midwest. I was okay with doing the things I was supposed to do, but I wasn’t okay about being ignorant of the things I wanted to do.

And so I read. I searched all indexes for “homosexuality” because I had somehow determined that was the category of most interest to me. I could find many discussions of what it meant to be affected by that particular noun, but no directions on how to act upon it. For I knew that sex involved action, I had seen pictures of that told me so. My older cousin (who was, for better or worse, one of my biggest mentors) had shown me the hidden stash of porn magazines his older brother kept under his bed. Inside were pictures of many naked women alongside occasional shots of naked men. And even less occasionally were the pictures of the men fully engorged and acting upon the women in ways I wished the would act upon me. But I wasn’t built like the women were built, so I knew I would have some difficulties actualizing my fantasies. But I never gave up hope that there was some way to do it.

To read about this curious youngster exploring his sexuality by giving up certain ideals and seeking out a female prostitute then go find a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. To learn how I learned to express my desires with words, well keep on reading.

Tony has a drinking problem. He is usually fairly eccentric and consistantly inappropriate, but when he drinks it becomes amplified to a deafening roar. For example, last night he was home alone and thought it might be nice to have a beer. So he drank a case by himself. He then laid down and went to sleep. What’s that you say? Not so bad? Perfectly normal? Well, wait until the next morning before you decide.

“Last night I dreamt that my mother peed all over me,” he stated while getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom. “It was gross. She was angry at me, or at least she sounded that way. I was on the ground and she was towering over me…”

This was a disturbing image, to be sure, but it didn’t stop there…

“I have no idea where it came from or what it means, but I suppose there are probably issues I have yet to deal with from my childhood.”

“Like what?” I naively asked.

“Not sure. Like I said she was very mad in the dream, and I felt guilty so it definitely seemed like some kind of punishment. Of course she never peed on me in real life, I don’t think anyone has for that matter. I suppose I have thought about it before, being peed on, but I don’t know how it would play out. I love the sound of a guy standing up and pissing into a toilet, a heavy stream of water, it just reeks of manliness to me. But I don’t know if I’d really like it. I mean, what pleasure is there to get from that?”

At this point I had to interrupt. “I am not sure that this is what you should be concerned with right now. Because the dream wasn’t about some exploratory sex act. It was about your mother. Kinda Oedipal, don’t you think?”

“Whatever. I hate that bullshit about gay men being in love with their mothers. I sure am not. I mean, she’s my mother and I love her, but that’s about the extent. She sure isn’t my ideal. She kinda bores me.”

“That’s really harsh, Tony.”

“It’s true, though. So I don’t think I have some latent desire or things like that. Maybe it is guilt because I don’t have any desire at all. But the weird thing is the punishment aspect. I wonder what I did to piss her off, no pun intended.”

“Yes it was. You are probably inventing this whole dream thing just so you could deliver that stupid line.”

“Get outta my face! I can’t help it if I think as sharply as I dress. But no, I’m definitely not making it up. I just have no idea where it came from. She yelled a lot when we were young, but there was no real corporal punishment. I mean, I remember one time she spanked me with a wooden kitchen spoon, but I got so freaked out that she freaked out also and ended up trying to get me to spank her because she felt bad.”

“She wanted you to spank her?”

“Yeah, it was crazy, she dragged me out to the barn and told me to hit her back. This only made me scream louder because I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“Tony, that is fucked up.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. But I don’t think it is related to my dream. Perhaps I just really had to pee because I drank so much last night. Oh, and I talked to my friend Kristina before I fell asleep. She reminded me of this book I left at her house when I visited her. It is called Secret Buddies and it’s about all of these guys who go to some lumberjack camp in the northwest and have lots of sex. There is a guy in the book who likes to be peed on, and some crazy erotic scene when he is in the bathroom with the camp stud and the stud is drinking tons of beer so he has plenty of ammunition.”

“I think you drink too much. Perhaps you should cut back.”

“I don’t remember caring about what you think. But maybe you’re right. It sure does interesting things to me, doesn’t it? And boy does it flow right through me! In fact, if you’ll excuse me…”

What Christopher Isherwood teaches us:

“Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face–the face of the child the boy, the young man, the not-so-young-man–all present still, preserved like fossils on superimposed layers, and like fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying creature is: Look at us–we have died–what is there to be afraid of?

It answers them: But that happened so gradually, so easily. I’m afraid of being rushed.

It stares and stares. Its lips part. It starts to breathe through its mouth. Until the cortex orders it impatiently to wash, to shave, to brush its hair. Its nakedness had to be covered. It must be dressed up in clothes because it is going outside, into the world of the other people; and these others must be able to identify it. Its behavior must be acceptable to them.

Obediently, it washes, shaves, brushes its hair, for it accepts its responsibilities to the others. It is even glad that it has its place among them. It knows what is expected of it.”

German awoke deliciously at eleven in the morning. It was the phone. The portable one he keeps on the bookshelf by his bed. The other, less portable yet still wireless, phone had already sounded twice and was ignored. This most recent ring could not be ignored, however, because the person calling was his boyfriend. It is never wise to ignore one’s boyfriend. Even if you yourself sometimes feel ignored.

German didn’t feel ignored for any obvious reason, but there were times he felt he deserved a bit more attention. Sometimes he actively sought this attention, others he just wished for it. Recently he had taken a picture of himself, standing naked in front of a full-length mirror. This had started as an act of self-hatred, taking close-ups of the body he often despised. However, as he stood in front of that rectangular reflection, he saw the image of a body he didn’t realize he possessed. Shoulders, chest, and stomach seemed a bit more defined then he imagined. And suddenly this photographic flagellation became adoration, or at least acceptance, and he posed for an image that he thought he could tolerate.

After many attempts he had a couple that he liked, and he decided to post them on his blog as a continuing series of self-portraits he had already made. This exposure made him a bit uncomfortable, because he knew that his boyfriend might take offense to the images. Although he rarely read German’s blog, there was a chance that he would see them and an even greater chance that he would get upset or jealous or something that may cause conflict. German knew this, and so had told him about the pictures. But despite the warning, he also took another precaution and doctored the photos to enhance their aesthetic impact, pairing them with the lyrics to one of his favorite Nina Simone songs: “Don’t let me be misunderstood.” This statement he thought would speak to his lover in a way that may trump past insecurities. Together the pictures and the words expressed something he hoped would make sense to others. Something he felt about himself and his creations. His view of his own life and how it was processed for the sake of artistic endeavors. However, it was rejected.

And with this failure to be understood by the boy who now was calling him he internalized the truth of the matter that he may live his life without certain validation. Cut off from full appreciation. He made perfect sense to himself, and figured that if people actually took the time to focus on the details and flush out the hidden meanings they too could appreciate his intricate composition.

But this was all background to his day to day experiences, and when the phone rang his eyes popped open and his mouth smiled and he sang out, “Good morning!”

German was in love, and this caused him to do many things. Enthusiastic hellos were just the tip of the iceberg, but they were delivered every morning when his boyfriend telephoned. German loved to hear his voice. He often squeaked and squealed during these conversations despite himself. And lately the telephone was their only avenue to talk since the boyfriend had moved away to study for a large test, so these moments became even more precious to him. “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

It was pointed out to German that it was already past 11am and he probably shouldn’t still be in bed. This only made the pleasure of pillows increase while he stretched and yawned. He felt totally rested lying there talking on the phone, and he noticed the sun shining in through the blinds. Peace was total.

Unfortunately it was also short-lived. For upon hanging up the phone in his hand the one in the living room began to ring again and he was forced to rise and confront his immediate surroundings. And so his day began.

Dressing was easy that morning, and soon he was ready to leave the apartment and head off to the library. He had put on a black t-shirt with a picture of Rufus Wainwright on the front that his boyfriend had bought him. He wore a pair of jeans with a hole in the right knee that he had acquired from his sister’s ex-boyfriend while staying with him in New York. It seemed the ex had become literally too big for his britches and so he passed them on to German. His shoes were yellow and blue Pumas he had purchased one sunny day while visiting the city he now lived in. He wore the black and silver watch he’d bought after his house burned down on his left wrist, and on the right one was a silver bracelet meant to raise AIDS awareness. He also wore two rings, one bought for him by his Russian friend while the two were running around the city late one night and one he purchased for himself. The gifted ring featured an elk-like animal amongst wild brambles, and the one he bought for himself was engraved with the name of his lover. The external appearance of this outfit was definitely less than the sum of his memories of all the disparate parts. And yet the colors and styles matched perfectly as he caught his reflection in the window of an office building.

He was on his way to return an overdue book, a book that had never been read. German owned or borrowed many books that he left unread. He always flipped through them, however, and he did so with this one on his way to return it. The book discussed the importance of immediate impressions and the importance of our unconscious assumptions about the world. The section he flipped through discussed the dynamics of married couples and the patterns that they develop. There was a scientist in Seattle who had made a science of watching couples interact and deconstructing the subtext of their behavior to predict their longevity. German thought about his own relationship and its patterns. He soon forgot the book and began to compose a letter in his head to the boy he loved. He wanted to try and express every sensation he was experiencing at that moment, but before he could finish he arrived at the library and became distracted.

The weather was well-balanced with sunshine and breeze, and walking aimlessly along the sidewalk appealed to him immensely. Having completed his one task, German felt free to explore. The last several days had really caused him to appreciate the city he was preparing to leave and all of its external beauty. Just the night before he was on a rooftop at dusk and the buildings simply glowed and danced in the fading sunlight. It was a lovely skyline that was enhanced by the manicured trees scattered throughout the streets. He had been in ecstasy looking at the world around him, and he felt that now as he meandered down the street.

It was then that he stumbled upon the “Scholarly and Antiquarian” bookstore. There was nowhere he had to be so he decided to indulge in the delight of dusty classics and undiscovered minds. It was difficult to understand the organizational scheme of the shelves, so instead of trying he just looked for names that he recognized. One in particular jumped out at him, but for no obvious reason. Christopher Isherwood. A quick reading of the jacket explained that this man had pioneered semi-autobiographical writing and was also an influential gay writer. And the stories he wrote while living in Berlin had been the foundation for “Ca
baret”.

The perfection of all of this came crashing down upon the young man and he dizzily sorted it out. It had been his former teacher, the first Mr. Jones, who had once asked German to perform the role of the emcee in a local staging of “Cabaret”. And now to discover that the author responsible for the play was so similar to himself in both style and desire was almost too much. What had started as a lazy afternoon errand had become both the conception, birth, and formal schooling of my continually serendipitous anagrammatic alter-ego.

German returned quickly home to read his new book and piece together the happenings of his afternoon. So many impressions and so little time. Sitting at the computer and typing through his memories, he began to realize that he was a part of a multi-layered legacy, and there may be more to his past than even he had realized.

The legacy of German Jones is a long and winding road. This recent discovery has exposed a possible skeleton in his closet. This was taken from a Dylan fan site:

“My view is that Mr. Jones is a normal citizen, maybe even married, but has thoughts of homosexuality and somehow ends up in an exotic gay strip club. He can’t believe what is happening and doesn’t know what to do. I have thought this since I first analyzed the song. I’ll run through the lyrics of ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’:

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home

pencil=penis. basically he has entered an exotic gay strip bar/club where they are doing all of these weird acts of sexuality and he wonders what’s happening, and how he is going to deal with this.

(3rd verse)
You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say, “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone

he walks up to Mr. Jones when he hears Mr. Jones speak maybe because Mr. Jones sounds gay and he asks how does it feel to be “a freak” or gay and replies “impossible” because Mr. Jones doesn’t think he is – at least not at the level of flaunting that the people in this club are doing.

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

for me this is a key verse since it says “you have many contacts among the lumberjacks” or ‘straight’/’manly’ people, “when someone attacks your imagination”, like these people are doing in these strip club.

You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known

this verse shows Mr. Jones tries to convince himself that he IS a part of society since he has done all of these things and not like these other “freaks”

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”

just use your imagination for this one. its pretty clear to me that he is in a gay strip club.

Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says, “How?”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”

one-eyed midget – a penis more than likely. again use your imagination.

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you coming’ around
You should be made
To wear earphones

the lasts lines are what Dylan is famous for – incredible lyrics. Mr. Jones thinks that society should “protect” him from places like this, and he shouldn’t be allowed to even be exposed to this.”

I was very happy to find this. It proves that I am not the only person interested in this most peculiar man.

Developing one’s sexuality is similar to reading a book. Well, at least for me it has read like a Choose Your Own Adventure story. It begins with a young boy witnessing his cousin peeing in an alley, and ends with that same boy all grown up and living with a man. The curiosity and desire have remained untouched, but the context has shifted somewhat. It used to be centered between his legs, but now it thrives within his head.

What amazes me about this story is the fact that this boy knew at a very early age who and what it was he desired. However, he also was aware of the fact that he could not tell another soul. Not his sister. Not his cousin. Not the boys he fell in love with. No, this was a tale he had to keep to himself.

The alleyway in which he first saw a man’s pubic hair has probably covered itself in ivy or filth, but this memory sparkles in my mind. Josh stood along the wall and unbuttoned his pants. I suppose I should have been peeing as well, but I was too busy watching him. Simply tufts of hair, black and curly, I’ve seen similar tufts many times since but I can’t remember anything quite as beautiful.

If you would like the young boy to forget what he saw and go about his own business and hang out in a normal way with his cousin then you are straight and can’t relate at all and should be reading another blog. If you would like him to hang out normally that afternoon but continually play out the scene for many years to come in his fantasies, and then rush to the library to learn about all of the secondary sex characteristics he has to look forward to and lust after then continue reading the next installment.

I just realized that I’ve been hunting for a sensual experience to calm my mind. Little did I know that actually I would only excite it further.

For days now I have sought solace in song and drink, food and friends. Searching for the perfect aural moment, the dulling of my nerves, a tickling tasty treat, or even the conscious comfort of conversation. I naively believed that these things would fill the emptiness that has eaten away at me since he left.

I have found all of these pleasures, and still nothing has stuck. Until tonight. I just took a walk in the cool evening with breeze kissing me between the fabric of my flowing black shirt. I saw manicured flowers and bought a translucent wine. I listened to my new collection of sultry women torch singers who have a knack for gravelly voices and silky sentiments.

But it wasn’t this 20 minutes that solved the puzzle. No, more sensations weren’t actually the missing piece. It was the total satisfaction of my sensual being, but it wasn’t enough.

The point is that all of this vanishes. The cold breeze stops blowing. The bottle gets emptied. But my awareness remains.

And it is my awareness of things present and things absent that lives inside my head and dulls these things. It is my throbbing memories of him that steal away the chance of peace.

I want the soul of something simple at home with me. Life is falling when we’re apart.

I love you. I miss you…

Despite his preference for handsome men, Tony has always had a way with the ladies. And here’s the proof! Blurt just sent him this lovely card. And it’s lovely ’cause it’s true…

Thanks, B.!

Tony is out of work. He’s been sitting around the house, naked and drinking 40s, for the last week and a half.

Tony lost his modeling gig. And his hustler gig. And his position as a kept boy. Now all he has is this latest incarnation as depressed couch potato. He has taken to the position with grace, but I’m not so sure it suits him.

Inertia is a demon, and if you allow it to allow you to rest, then you better hope you are at peace. Because if you are anything like Tony, then you may end up in peace.

Unfortunately, Tony and I have this in common. I’m not really sure what we’re going to do.